


Ebony & Ivory

by BurnWithLee



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 04:21:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19716109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BurnWithLee/pseuds/BurnWithLee
Summary: Ebony and Ivory live together in perfect harmony,side by side on my piano keyboard, oh Lord, why don't we?Crowley would do anything for his angel, even if it means learning to play a whole new instrument for him.





	Ebony & Ivory

**Author's Note:**

> First fanfic, so please excuse any of the mistakes. Not a native English speaker. All and any suggestions and opinions welcome!

He slowly sat down by the piano, his fingers caressing the piano keys.

Crowley was never the one to have the patience to practise for hours, but well, few hundreds of years and the right teachers did the trick. More or less. It’s true when the say Hell has the best composers.

He couldn’t say he loved music so much he actually couldn’t help himself to learn how to play, and even if he did, guitar would be much more of an obvious choice. After all, he owned some pretty impressive pieces of those, and just like Aziraphale’s books, they were signed by those who gifted them to him.

_Aziraphale._

He let out a sigh.

He would never admit it to the angel, but he was the reason why he picked up playing piano. At one of their many lunch dates, Aziraphale complimented the restaurant’s hired piano player, stating he quite enjoyed the sound. And that, as usual, was enough for Crowley to decide to become a pianist. Or at least be fairly good.

The angel, of course, had no idea that Crowley could play piano, let alone own one.

Crowley’s apartment was spacious and minimalistic, filled with only the newest and most expensive things, the exact opposite of angel’s crowded bookshop. The only thing that stood out was old and white concert wing.

Aziraphale has never been in Crowley’s apartment, no matter how subtle or obvious Crowley’s invitations were, so no wonder he had absolutely no idea. The most he’s seen of demon’s materialistic possessions was the Bentley.

Crowley stretched his fingers quickly and began to play. He himself didn’t know what, the melody simply came to him – as always, when he was thinking about Aziraphale.

He put all his feelings into his music – all his love, yes, but also all the hurt, all the confusion and rejection he has faced in his lifetime. But not only from the angel, no. As far as he was concerned, Aziraphale never intended to hurt him on purpose. He wasn’t even sure he would be capable of that. The angel wasn’t mean.

Anything that happened, Crowley though, was his fault. He was a demon, after all. He couldn’t be nice. He could’t – and didn’t – deserve good things. But a teeny, tiny part of him hoped he could get at least something. Shouldn’t God be forgiving?

He didn’t mean to fall, no. He only ever asked questions and hanged around wrong people. Or angels, whatever you want to call it. He didn’t remember what they were talking about. He often wondered if anyone knew. Isn’t it ironic? He doesn’t even remember the reason of his fall.

What he did remember, was Aziraphale. As if he could ever forget him. He loved him, more than anything else, and at least for a little while, before the fall, he was sure Aziraphale loved him back. He remembered how worried Aziraphale was, when he hanged out with Lucifer. How he warned him and begged for Crowley to be careful. And he remembered seeing Aziraphale after the fall. He _remembered_ Aziraphale.

But the angel did not remember Crowley.

All the angels remembered Lucifer. They knew of the other fallen angels. They did remember Crowley. But not his angel.

He was sure it was some cruel joke to send him up to the garden. Hell knew of Aziraphale’s job there and they must’ve known the two will meet. It was like a spit in Crowley’s face, only meant to torture and demean him. We know you’re hurt, so let’s pour some salt into the wound! That should be fun! Bastards. All of them.

When he saw his angel in the garden for the first time, Aziraphale was cooing over a baby deer. Crowley hid in the shadows, just watching him, his heart breaking. All he wanted was to run to him, to embrace him, to have everything the way it used to be before the Fall.

But he didn’t want to frighten him. He had no idea how he would react to his new appearance. Especially the eyes. Aziraphale loved his starry eyes, showering Crowley in neverending compliments about them. Now, Crowley was sure there was nothing to compliment him about. He despised his now snake-like eyes, hiding them whenever possible. Very good invention, those glasses. But back then, he didn’t have those. And Aziraphale turned around.

No. Crowley didn’t want to think about it. The look on angel’s face was forever burned into his brain, and it hurt the demon to even think about it. He didn’t blame Aziraphale, though. He could never. As always, Crowley blamed himself.

Crowley continued to play, losing sense of time. He could be playing for hours for all he cared. Eventually he got stuck in a loop, playing the same melody all over again, and again.

He stopped and reached behind him. On a small coffee table behind him laid a notebook, bound in leather and overflowing with papers. It was a miracle it even held together, considering the fact it was incredibly thick. He took out one of the pages from the very bottom and from somewhere, he had miracled a pen. Crowley started writing notes, continuing with the sheet music he already wrote.

He wrote down all of his ideas, all of his mindless improvisations he thought of in the middle of the night, when even he couldn’t sleep. He never bothered with naming them, what would even bet he point? It’s not like anyone would ever hear them. Even Crowley barely came back to a melody he had already composed and wrote down. Just like all of his feelings, he tried to lock them away.

He finished scribbling down the notes and his brows furrowed, as he played the melody in his head, trying to find any errors. He had to actually play one particular passage, as he wasn’t even sure if it was really playable. It wasn’t.

When he was finally satisfied with the result, he marked the song. _Aziraphale #415_. All of them were marked the same – with the angel’s name and a number. After all, it was Aziraphale, because of whom he started playing, and the one that inspired him the most. It only made sense to do it like this.

Crowley often daydreamed about simpler times, when it didn’t matter who they were. There was no Heaven nor Hell, no angels or demons. It was only them and nothing else mattered. There was no hiding and no consequences. No one was watching.

In his dreams, Crowley played all of his songs for his angel. He imagined Aziraphale’s face as he was listening to his songs. He liked to thing the angel would smile. Maybe, after he finished playing, the angel would make them both a cup of cocoa and later, they would cuddle on the sofa, and Crowley would fall asleep in his arms.

But those were just dreams, Crowley reminded himself. And that’s what they will stay.


End file.
